


Full Throttle

by sunbreaksdown



Series: miles to go [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, F/F, Humanstuck, an unfortunate lack of fish puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbreaksdown/pseuds/sunbreaksdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meenah isn't <i>exactly</i> sweeping Aranea off her feet, which, all things considered, is probably for the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Throttle

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something short and light-hearted, because everything else seems to grind to a halt, lately, and it's nice to just get a whole fic done in one sitting! I was rambling about silly AU ideas on tumblr, a few people expressed interest, so I had to make it a thing.

     “Hey! Nerd!”

     It's mostly your own fault for turning to look at her. Ever since you pulled up to the traffic lights, you've been vaguely aware of her leering at you, revving her bike every few seconds, just to see if it'll make you jump. You've always had a knack for knowing when someone had it in for you, and you should've just focused on the way your Vespa hummed beneath you, rather than actually pay her any heed.

     But there you are, responding to the name _nerd_ , as if the girl on the obnoxiously loud motorcycle can see into your scooter's storage compartment and get a look at the stack of books inside. You only make eye contact for half a second, because the light's already turned amber and she's about to make her escape, but she's sneering at you from beneath her helmet, visor pulled up.

     She gives you the finger, works the throttle, and flies off, as if it's a race. As if your sky-blue Vespa is ever going to be able to keep up with the beast of a bike she's riding.

     You turn off in the opposite direction, and tell yourself that it doesn't mean anything; she was probably just having a bad day, and opted to take her stress out on you. Yelling at strangers is probably cathartic in its own right, even if _Hey! Nerd!_ isn't exactly the greatest insult you've ever heard.

*

     The books you picked up at work were new arrivals to the library, but you doubt anyone will notice that you've snatched them up. It's not going to take you much longer than a night or two to read through them, anyway, and it's perfectly feasible that new releases would've been loaned out almost immediately, should anyone ask. Just one of the perks of the job.

     You bundle the books up, grab the bag of shopping you picked up on the way home, and head up to your eight-floor flat. Inside, you greet your flatmates, and idly chat away with them while you put together dinner. It's all very civil; you talk about the weather, how work was for all parties involved, but it never becomes more personal than that. That's how you find things go with most people, because they like you well enough, when you do your best to keep things to simple, subjects never wandering from a single point.

     Your dinner ends up in your room with you, balance precariously on your knees as you curl up, digging into the food and the first of the books you've brought back all at once. You're entirely lost in the words, so much so that you can't even hear your flatmates letting the TV play so loudly you'd think you were in the living room with them, when a non-sequitur in the text reminds you of what happened at the traffic lights earlier in the day.

     With a frown, you look up from your book, taking a moment to let your eyes adjust to the dim of the room. It takes longer than it should've; you were somewhere else entirely. Only then do you consider the fact that perhaps you should've rustled up a comeback. It wouldn't be difficult to out-do _Hey! Nerd!_ , but your mind blanks when it comes to mustering up something snappy enough.

     You've never done well with brevity. 

*

     A week later, the library doors slam open like a tidal wave's hit them.

     You're working behind the counter, checking out a stack of gardening books for a little old lady, when the murmured quiet barely buzzing between bookcases is interrupted by the thundering of doors hitting the walls behind them. The crashing is soon joined by an all too loud mumble of “Jesus fucking Christ, you'd think there'd be a goddamn bathroom around here somewhere.”

     The woman you're serving looks up at you with a furrowed brow, a tad bemused, and you're relieved that she probably didn't hear it all. You hurry to get the books packed away into a bag for her, and thankfully, there's no one else queued up behind her. Stepping out from behind the counter, you head towards the person who's decided that library rules don't apply to them, and it takes you approximately an eighth of a second to realise who they are.

     She's stomping up and down aisles, no idea of where she's going, despite having a very fixed end-point in mind, tinny music blaring out from the headphones slung around her neck. A suit doesn't really match her demeanour, you think, but she's wearing it in the most shoddy way imaginable; the shirt's spilling out at the waist, the collar of the jacket's half sticking up, and the pants are at least two sizes to big for her, even though they don't rely on a belt to stay up.

     “Can I help you?” you ask, because you don't think _Who's the nerd now?_ is a particularly good introduction. She sizes you up, sneers, and very nearly pushes right past you.

     “If you're any good at your job,” she snaps, arms folded across her chest. If she recognises you in any way, she goes to absolutely no effort to show as much. “You got bathrooms in this place?”

     “Yes, actually. Many of the people who frequent this establishment choose to read here, favouring the tranquil atmosphere. It wouldn't do to expect them to spend long hours in one place without access to such facilities.” You're rambling. On purpose, true, but you're rambling nonetheless. The girl from the traffic lights narrows her eyes, gaze harpooning right through you. “... they're only for those making use of the library.”

     “Fuck's sake,” she says, hopping from one foot to the other. “I'll read every damn Dickens in this place if you just let me pee.”

     It'd be unspeakably cruel to leave someone high and dry when they're in such a state, but that doesn't mean you aren't tempted to do so. You spend a second longer than you need to considering her plea, and then swing out an arm, gesturing for her to follow you. She doesn't say thank you and you didn't expect her to, and you return to your place behind the counter, keeping one eye on the bathroom door.

     Your theory that she only shouts at strangers when she's had a bad day, and only stomps into places in a foul mood when she's in dire need of a WC doesn't hold much water. The bathroom door swings open with as much force as those at the entrance did, and she still marches across the library, pounding her feet far too hard against the carpet.

     “You're welcome,” you say as she passes.

     She takes another four steps before deciding to come to a halt, and then very slowly looks over her shoulder at you. She lifts her brow, as if daring you to say that again, now that you're face-to-face, and you rock on the balls of your feet, smiling, lifting one hand from behind your back to wave at her.

     She scowls deeper, and then jerks her head towards the window overlooking the car park.

     “That your Vespa?” she asks, and you realise that it's not that she doesn't recognise you; she just doesn't _care_. You nod and she laughs, as it's not quite as scathing as it could be. “Heh. Should've known.”

*

     The next time you see her, she comes frighteningly close to killing you.

     A roar rips through the road behind you, and you barely have time to glance in your wing mirror before she's at your side, nudging you over to the pavement. There are about a hundred better ways for her to get you to pull over than this, and none of those involve the possibility of her front wheel searing off half of your Vespa, and a leg to boot. You come to stop as quickly as you can, and she skids her bike out in front of you.

     You lunge forward when you hit the breaks too hard, and you're left there wide-eyed, hands welded to the handlebars, for all intents and purposes.

     “Hey, nerd,” she says, flicking her visor up. You don't say anything in reply, because your heart's in your throat and your throat's closed up too tightly for you to be able to hold it there, but she doesn't seem to care. “You see this V-twin engine deal here? That's what a real bike looks like.”

     “I—” you begin, shakily, wishing she'd turn her damn bike off. Your head's pounding as much as your heart. “Did you want something?”

     She shrugs, reaches forward, and knocks a fist against the brim of your helmet. 

     “Nah. Just wanted to say hi.”

     Your life slowly stops flashing before your eyes, and you look at her with an overwhelmingly blank expression, not able to get out much more than an _oh_. After a moment, when she looks to be making ready to speed off again, you manage to ask her what her name is. It's your third meeting with her, and mentally referring to her as _the obnoxious, angry girl on an obnoxious bike_ is starting to wear thin.

     “Name's Meenah,” she says, muffled by her helmet. You introduce yourself as Aranea, but she's already revving the bike up. If she hears you, she doesn't acknowledge the fact, and just waves over her shoulder as she tears her way down the road, leaving you shaken.

*

     Later that week, you discover Meenah's terrible secret. 

     You've stepped out of the library during your lunch break to pay some money into the bank, and there she is, serving the queue of people ahead of you. It's awful, but you can't stop from grinning, because she hasn't spotted you yet, and you can tell how much trying to be professional pains her. She's already slouched in her seat, but once she finally glances across the room and catches sight of you, she practically sinks down beneath her desk, mouthing _oh, fuck_.

     When you get to the front of the queue, she's busy with someone else and another teller frees up next to her. You let the woman and her screaming child stood behind you go ahead, and then happily stroll over to Meenah, announcing that you'd like to deposit some money, as if you've never met her before.

     You're enjoying this far too much. “This explains the suit,” you tell her, and she huffs, self-consciously tugging on the collar. You've no doubt that she'd like little more than to snap back at you, but her manger's hovering nearby, and she has enough restraint to at least not lose her job.

     “Whatever,” she eventually grumbles, “It pays the bills, alright?”

     You inform her that she doesn't need to explain herself to you, and she gives you the most sceptical look, like you're going to use this against her forever. Like you're going to have another run in with her. Meenah does her job quickly and unenthusiastically, manages to toe the line directly between being polite and being rude, and you thank her brightly for all her help, just to see her squirm.

     “See you around,” she says flatly as you turn to leave, pauses, and surprises you by adding: “Aranea.”

     Although you're perfectly well aware that she only does so because her manager wouldn't take very kindly to her referring to customers as nerds. 

*

     Your chicken and cucumber sandwiches are neatly wrapped up in tinfoil bundles, you have a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice, and there's a brand new novel waiting for you. You can't think of a better way to spend your lunch break, and just as soon as you open your book, the latest work by the author of _Complacency of the Learned_ , everything goes to hell. You fold open the cover, feel the spine crease between your hands, and almost jump out of your seat when a voice booms out behind you.

     “You're eating your lunch at your desk? Goddamn, didn't think you could be any more of a dork.”

     You spin your chair around, regain your composure in that split second, and look up at Meenah. She makes an expression that's somehow a smile and a scowl all rolled into one, and you almost find yourself startled again by how inappropriately endearing it is. She tries staring you out, wanting to know how you'll react, and slams her helmet down on the library counter with a _thud_. 

     “Hello, Meenah. This is an unexpected surprise. By any chance, do you need to make use of our bathroom facilities once again?” you smile briefly up at her, head titled to the side. “Ah, never mind. You aren't dancing on the spot, this time. Are you here to peruse the Dickens collection you alluded to last time?”

     Meenah rolls her eyes, looking defeated, and you do your best to keep a straight face and not beam up at her. She glances away for a second too long, and you can tell she's trying not to laugh at how absurd you are. After a moment, she decides that she can't linger in silence any longer, and reaches out, grabbing you by the elbow.

     “Come on,” she says, tugging you to your feet, inadvertently causing your orange juice to fall over. Good thing the lid was on tight. “We've gotta get your nose outta those books.”

*

     Meenah isn't exactly sweeping you off her feet.

     She chooses the venue for your impromptu lunch escapades the first two times, and never gives you any prior warning; she simply strolls into the library whenever the mood takes her, dragging you away from your desk and whatever fantasy world you're trying to burrow your way into. The first time, she takes you out for burgers, slumps sulkily in her chair like she's the one who's been inconvenienced and caught off-guard, and shrugs in lieu of answering most of your questions.

     For some reason, this doesn't put you off in the least. If you didn't know any better, you'd almost say she was nervous. The second lunch break goes much the same way, and it's not until the third time you let her drag you out that things start to gain some semblance of a working conversation. 

     You choose where you eat. It's a tiny little café in a quiet road off the high street, and the weather's nice, so you take a table out on the front patio. She folds her arms across the table and leans on them, the piercings in her eyebrow glinting in the sun, and complains that the food there is goddamn boring. She doesn't seem to mind it as much when she's actually eating it, though. 

     Your initial round of questions is met with the usual, tired response: she asks why you're so nosy, why you don't ever shut up, but five minutes of rambling at length about how you came to work in the library and she's more willing to talk about herself. 

     She's got an older sister called Feferi who's a marine biologist or something, she doesn't really know, it just involves fish _and crap_ , and their parents moved over here from Malaysia a fuck-load of years before her and Feferi were born. She only works in the bank because they pay well and it's easy as hell, but what she _really_ cares about is the band she's got going on with a few losers she calls friends. You're not surprised to learn that she's on lead guitar, but when you try asking her any more, she decides that it's more than enough, and flips the subject back to you.

     “You do realise it's not the fifties any more, right?” she asks, using two fingers to prod at either corner of your glasses.

     “You do realise that the Sex Pistols disbanded in 1978, don't you?” you retort, but don't bat her hands away.

     She sighs, retaliates by stealing a corner of your panini, and then leans back in her seat, one arm thrown across the back. 

     Meenah isn't exactly sweeping you off your feet and you can't even tell if that's actually what she's _trying_ to do, but it isn't so bad. In all the books you read, in all the novels you immerse yourself in, there's always some ridiculous struggle involved that's gripping to read, but you'd never want to be part of. You don't really want to have to deal with dragons chasing you down, mistreated robots kidnapping you, the oppressive political atmosphere created by your two family's names keeping you apart; perhaps it's better like this, with the only real problem being how much Meenah speaks her mind and seems to enjoy swearing loudly in public.

*

     A local school brought their Year Six class in for a tour of the library earlier, and at the end of a rather noisy Friday, you want nothing more than to hurry home, curl up in bed, and mindlessly watch one of your favourite films.

     No such luck.

     Meenah's waiting for you in the car park, next to your Vespa. It might actually be more accurate to say that she's placed herself between you and the Vespa, because once you're done with your hellos, smiling in spite of any lingering exhaustion, she takes two steps to the right, stopping you from getting to it. You try going around the other way, and she steps to the left, moving along with you like an out of time reflection.

     “Is there something the matter, Meenah?” you ask, lips twitching at the corners.

     “Hell yeah there's somethin' wrong,” she says, both hands on your shoulders to keep you in place. “Been telling you that since we first met, but you never listen to me. Always yapping on about yourself, never piping down.”

     Actually, you think you're an excellent listener. You just can't abide too many uncomfortable silences.

     “That thing ain't no way for you to get home. What's it even powered by? The finest hair-dryers money can buy?”

     You try not to be offended too much on your scooter's behalf, and wrap your fingers around her wrists, easing her hands away.

     “Then what would you suggest?”

     Her solution to this apparent problem doesn't surprise you. She drags you over to her bike in the corner of the car park, though you're perfectly capable of following under your own steed, and you give it a cautious glance. It's a powerful looking machine and you know that Meenah likes to ride very, very fast; she must catch the worry etched onto your face, because she tells you to get over it, it's going to be fine. She's goddamn great at riding it, thank you very much.

     Knowing that you can't very well refuse her, you take your helmet from where the strap's slung around your arm, and resign yourself to putting it on.

     Until Meenah practically bats it out of your hands, that is.

     “Nah, that's no good!” she says, and tells you that an open-face helmet like that isn't going to do shit for you on a _real_ bike. She grabs her own helmet off the seat, and though you're trying to ask what about _her_ , she's too busy stuffing it over your head to listen. She lifts the visor up, grins at you, flicks it back down, and then hops on the bike.

     The helmet's tight and smushes your face in from all angles, but you're fairly certainly that's what it's supposed to do. Meenah pats the space on the bike behind her, and without further hesitation, you swing one leg across, sliding behind her on the seat. Admittedly, it _is_ kind of exciting. 

     You debate over what to do with your own hands for a moment, and when she starts up the engine, you busy them with putting _your_ helmet on her. She shakes her head, trying to escape it, and although she says it's useless, you don't like the thought of her riding off without anything protecting her head. You finally get her to settle down, and then loop your arms around her shoulders, tightening the strap around her chin.

     She complains about looking stupid, and you shut her up by wrapping your arms around her waist. While being the most practical way to ensure that you don't go flying, it's also a wonderfully clichéd gesture, which you top off by leaning against her back. Meenah gets going quickly enough after that, tensing up against you, and once you're tearing up the main road, it's almost as if she's melded into her bike.

     Sadly, the same can't be said for you. Your stomach's tangled up in your chest for much of the ride, and everything's rushing past you so quickly that all you make out are coloured blurs. Every car you overtake feels like it's so close you're going to go straight up the boot and soaring off the bonnet, and every corner you turn makes you feel as if you're going to touch the ground at any moment now.

     When Meenah comes to a sudden stop, you squeeze her tighter, both relieved and disappointed that it's temporarily over. She kicks the bike's stand out and then swings one leg across, so she's sitting side on, able to face you. She mouths something, probably to ask if you're alright, but your ears are ringing, and the helmet keeps the words out. Meenah places a hand against the side of it, uses a thumb to push up the visor, and then peeks inside.

     She laughs loudly, though not cruelly, and helps you pull it off. Unfortunately, you don't have the advantage of Meenah's short hair, and you can feel how ridiculous you must look, hair flattened down in some places, sticking out in others. You raise a hand, self-consciously trying to fix it, and Meenah asks you what you thought of it.

     “ _Terrifying_ ,” you breathe, unable to stop grinning. Meenah smirks, as smug as anything, and you're struck by the biggest urge to wipe that expression off her face.

     You succumb to said temptation within a fraction of a second, likely due in no small part to the adrenaline pounding through you. Your arms wrap around her shoulders, and before she can shake you off, you're leaning in, lips brushing against hers. If nothing else, you're bound to find out whether those lunch trips were actually supposed to be dates or not.

     To Meenah's credit, she does an excellent job of not seeming taken aback. She puts her hands at your hips and grins into the kiss, and you feel the edge of your own helmet press against your forehead as she leans in closer.

     “Heh,” she says, pulling back after a long moment, “I always did have a thing for nerds.”


End file.
